


I Remember

by Threadwhistle (Spindleshanking)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spindleshanking/pseuds/Threadwhistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had forgotten. She had forgotten everything. Her home, her father, the sound of rain--everything. Regina’s curse had kept these memories from her.</p><p>Belle processes her feelings post 2x01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Remember

It’s raining.  
  
The sound of it pulls Belle from sleep--the high gentle pattering of raindrops against the window mixing with the deeper pounding of rain against earth. There’s a rumble of thunder, low and distant, and she groans in response, stretching her stiff, aching limbs.  
  
For just a moment she is confused and drowsy, uncertain in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, before the memories trickle back in. Even then, it almost feels like she’s still dreaming. The pillow under her head is soft and plush, the blankets warm. And after so long staring at nothing but bare white walls, the chaos of faded wallpaper and shelves piled high with a jumble of books and trinkets is enough to make her head hurt. She drinks it all in anyway, relishing the unfamiliarity, the clutter and confusion.  
  
Belle is a little surprised that she even managed to find sleep, but it seems her exhausted body must have finally won out over her mind.  
  
She crawls out of bed, bare feet padding across the cold floor to the window.  
  
There are worries battering at the edge of her consciousness--this new land, Rumplestiltskin, the Queen--a thousand and one hopes and fears threatening to overwhelm her. There are so many things here that are terrifying and thrilling and new. There is heartache that could tear her apart if she let it.  
  
Belle knows she can’t run from these thoughts forever, but just for now she refuses to let them in.  
  
One hand goes out idly to trace her fingers through the moisture on the windowpane. It leaves a mark and suddenly she remembers a hundred rainy days when she was a little girl--great autumn storms that sent everyone scurrying inside and ruined her playtimes. She remembers curling up by the windows in her father’s council chamber, drawing little swirls and patterns in the fog on the glass with her fingers while she waited for the weather to pass.  
  
So many times she fell asleep that way, listening to the sound of the rain on stone and glass. Her father’s hands were big and warm on her shoulders when he would wake her, murmuring “There you are, my girl. Come on, let’s get you something warm to drink.” She would put her arms around his neck, breathing in the horses and wood-smoke smell of him, as he carried her sleepy, protesting form from the room.  
  
Suddenly she is blinking away tears. She had forgotten. She had forgotten everything. Her home, her father, the sound of rain--everything. Regina’s curse had kept these memories from her.  
  
Breathing deeply, she writes her name on the glass with one finger. Five letters--‘Belle’.

  
These are her memories. Her name. Hers. Nothing will ever take them from her again.  
  
Belle only wishes she could forget what the curse had given her in place of her childhood, but those memories were every bit as vivid as the ones of her home.    
  
She remembers standing on the bed to reach the window of her prison when it rained. Stretching up on her toes she could just barely touch the little square of glass and bring the bit of wetness that clung to her fingertips back to her lips. She was sure it tasted so much sweeter than the water that came in the little paper cup with her dinner.  
  
It felt strange, having both of these lifetimes side-by-side in her head. How easy it would be, if she had still been locked away in there when her memories returned, to convince herself that she really had gone mad. That she had only ever imagined the warmth or sunlight or the taste of rain.  
  
Belle looks at the water clinging to her fingers now and without a thought she is running, her feet pounding on the hardwood floors, out into the hall and down the stairs, running like she’s being chased by a hundred ogres. She slips and skids on a rug, banging her hands and knees as she catches herself on the banister and keeps running.  
  
The back door opens out onto a little garden and Belle freezes in the doorway. It’s tiny and overgrown, choked with weeds, but everything is wet and green and she has never seen anything more beautiful in her life. The rain is louder out here and for just a moment the commotion of it makes her want to run back inside. She holds her ground.  Buried underground, rain had always sounded like a mottled roar, vague and distant. Belle closes her eyes and just listens for a moment, relearning the sounds of thick fat raindrops pounding on stone or splattering wetly on leaves, and the quick patter of sharp little droplets against the wall of the house.  
  
Without opening her eyes, Belle tentatively reaches one trembling hand outside of the doorway.  
  
The first fat droplet striking her palm makes her jump, almost yanking her hand back, and she laughs a little breathlessly at herself. Her eyes shoot open as a second, third, and fourth fall one after the other. She cups the water in her palm briefly, before watching it run through her fingers.  
  
Belle sticks her other arm out beside the first, turning them over to let the rain hit the back of her hands. It runs down her wrists, wet and a little cold, to soak the sleeves of her nightshirt.

  
She stands there for a moment, simply enjoying the feel of raindrops falling on her outstretched hands. A steady tap-tap-taptap.  
  
But it isn’t enough. Her heart quickens a little staring out into the open space. The rain has washed everything in gray, the sky disappearing into a low haze of clouds, and the garden is full of the bright silver shine of wet leaves. She tries to call to mind the sight and smell of her father’s garden back home, the feeling of running through it to escape an unexpected summer shower, but the memories dance back out of her reach, leaving her with nothing but stale air and the shadows of raindrops on bare white walls.  
  
Biting her lip, Belle steps outside.  
  
The first droplets on the top of her head make her squeeze her eyes shut and hunch her shoulders. It takes her breath away, but she doesn’t turn back. Forcing her eyes back open, she walks forward until the wet stone under her feet gives way to sodden earth. The ground out here has already half-turned to mud, which squishes, cold and vaguely unpleasant, through her toes. She ignores it, letting the fresh wet smell of the garden chase away the memories of stale, dusty air.  
  
She would have imagined the process from dry to wet would be instant, like slipping into a bath, but the rain isn’t nearly thick enough for that. Instead it’s a slow overtaking as the steady pounding of water drenches her skin and sticks her clothes to her body spot by tiny spot. It gathers on top of her head only to stream in thick rivulets down her hair. The rain is colder than she expected and every new piece of skin it touches sends a little shiver through her until she is thoroughly soaked through.  
  
Twenty-eight years, Rumplestiltskin had said. The Queen’s magic had kept her locked away in that stifling little room for longer than she had ever been alive out of it. More than an entire lifetime since the last time she had felt anything like this. No wonder it had felt like she would never leave that room.  
  
Quite suddenly Belle is laughing. She is cold and wet and she is laughing, cannot stop laughing, because she is free now and she remembers everything. Because she is safe and whole, she has found the man she loves, and she will never have to spend another day staring out a tiny window at the sky.  
  
Tilting her head back she lets the rain patter down on her upturned face, washing away every memory of that awful place. It clings heavy to her eyelashes and she sputters a little and giggles when it goes up her nose.  
  
She isn’t sure how long she stands there, enveloped in the sound and feel of it. It’s chaotic and still just a little unpleasant where the mud sticks to her toes and her sodden hair clings to her neck, but it’s the most wonderful moment in her memory.  
  
“Hey,” a quiet voice cuts through her thoughts, “What are you doing out here?”  
  
She turns back to see Rumplestiltskin standing in the open doorway, peering out at her with concern. He looks disheveled, still in his bedclothes, and she feels a flash of guilt for waking him.  
  
“Belle? Is everything alright?” He is worried for her. She remembers how furious he was when he found out where she’d been, how vengeful, as if his anger would somehow help anything. But she knows it hurts him--that he feels like he should have protected her, and maybe he’s right. Another thing she will eventually find it in her to forgive him for.  
  
But how can she explain this to him when he wants so much to be able to shelter her from this pain? How could she explain that loss of self?  
  
I’d forgotten what rain felt like. For twenty-eight years, I’d forgotten what rain felt like.  
  
I’d forgotten everything.  
  
I missed this.  
  
I missed you.  
  
Belle is aware that she makes a choked sound somewhere between laughter and a sob.  
  
“It’s raining,” she says simply. She cannot tell if the wetness on her cheeks is from the rain or her tears.  
  
He doesn’t answer and for one desperate moment she begs him with her eyes to please understand. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if he doesn’t, if he simply stands there, staring at her like she’s gone mad. There are a lot of things she can bear from him, but not that. Anything but that. Because she isn’t mad. She isn’t. And if he doesn’t understand this, then nobody else will.  
  
After a long moment his concern softens into something warm and fond, and, Belle thinks she sees, just a little sad in the corners of his eyes. “So it is.”  
  
She grins so brightly her whole face aches.  
  
But his eyes are focused on his hands, knotted over the handle of his cane, and he doesn’t see her. That guilt is back, that self-recrimination she saw yesterday in the forest, and Belle cannot bear to see it on his face right now. She only wants for him to be happy for her, happy with her. She’s sick half-to-death of tears and guilt between them.  
  
She has told him she forgives him, tried to banish his hurt with words, but words haven’t been enough.    
  
Wet grass squishes under her bare toes as she pads across the damp garden and up the stone steps to where he stands just inside the doorway, sheltered from the rain. He looks up as she approaches, frowning a little at her sodden form, and moves to usher her inside. Belle stops him, placing both her wet little hands over his on the cane. She is still a little surprised at how warm his skin is in this form.  
  
Smiling, she draws one of his hands away with both of hers and pulls.  
  
He resists just a little, uncertain of her intent, but Belle is insistent, dragging him with her out into the garden.  
  
“Belle!” he sputters, protesting, as the first light pattering of rain hits him, and Belle cannot help but giggle at his wet-cat indignation. She tugs him out into the very center of the garden, holding onto his hand so that he can’t escape back inside.  
  
“Well I hope you’re happy,” he murmurs, but with more fondness than irritation, pretending to peer balefully at the gray clouds above them as a fresh wave of thunder rumbles overhead.  
  
“I am,” Belle says. She leans up on her tiptoes to kiss him.  
  
His lips taste like rainwater, and it’s sweeter than she ever imagined.  
  
She squeals as the sky opens up, redoubling its efforts and drenching them both in earnest.  
  
He looks like a drowned rat, all sharp angles in his sodden bedclothes, with soaked tendrils of hair clinging to his face and neck. Belle cannot resist laughing as she reaches out to brush away the strands plastered to his forehead. There is a droplet of water clinging to the tip of his nose and she leans in, playful, to kiss it away.  
  
Soon she will let him bundle her inside and ply her with a hot cup of tea. She’ll let him wrap her in dry towels and blankets while he frets over her and tries to pretend desperately that he isn’t. And she will enjoy the attention after so many years of isolation, for once their roles reversed.  
  
Later she will muster up her courage and face this new world, face all her fears for their future together.  
  
But for right now she’ll stay exactly where she is, safe from the world, his hand warm and slippery in hers.  
  
Right now it’s raining. **  
**


End file.
